


Integrate

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Memories, No Plot/Plotless, Past Character Death, Past Violence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Psychological Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'In that timeline,' Byakuran purrs, a reminder to tug Irie back to reality, to hold him where he is instead of lost to the memory of some disintegrated possibility. 'You haven’t even been to university yet, Sho-chan.'" Irie tells Byakuran about the lost future and Byakuran loses himself in the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Integrate

“Go on,” Byakuran urges. “And what happened after that?”

Irie groans. “You wanted to play Choice,” he says, voice cracking high as Byakuran slides his fingers up the inside of his thigh, Irie’s head tilting back to strain the words against a too-sharp angle of his throat. “Like we used to, in university.”

“In that timeline,” Byakuran purrs, a reminder to tug Irie back to reality, to hold him where he is instead of lost to the memory of some disintegrated possibility. “You haven’t even  _been_  to university yet, Sho-chan.”

“God,” Irie gasps, hips jolting up off the bed to arc towards Byakuran’s touch dragging up his skin. “That’s the timeline we’re  _talking_  about, of  _course_  that timeline, do I need to say it every time?”

“Of course,” Byakuran says, ducking in close to breathe the word over Irie’s hip, to part his lips and catch his teeth against the curve of pale skin drawn taut over the sharp edge of bone. Irie whimpers at the ceiling. “I’m just trying to keep things straight, you know how hard that is for me.”

“It’s not usually this hard,” Irie groans, petulant with the anticipation flushing his cock hard against his stomach, voice skidding out on the same heat that has sprawled his legs so wide Byakuran can see the strain of the angle aching tension along the inside of his thighs, can see the tremor of it shivering under the bruised-in prints of Byakuran’s mouth high against pale skin. “You’re fine  _most_  times of the year.”

“It’s my birthday,” Byakuran reminds Irie, blinking slow so he can watch Irie’s expression through the shadow of his lashes as he tightens his fingers against the other’s leg to dig a span of fingerprints over the bitemark he left days ago. “You have to be nice to me, Sho-chan.”

“I’m  _always_  nice to you,” Irie protests, hand reaching out to fist at Byakuran’s shirt and drag desperation over the fabric. “I’m nicer than I  _should_  be, it’s you who--” He chokes, his inhale twisting into a breathless moan as Byakuran licks up against his cock, and Byakuran has to draw back to grin, to watch the shudder of reaction wipe Irie’s expression into blank heat under him.

“We played Choice,” Byakuran says, drawling the words into a hum of heat on his tongue as he frees his fingers from their grip on Irie’s thighs, reaches for the bottle left a foot away across the bedsheets. “And then what happened?”

“God,” Irie gasps, lifts an arm up to angle over his face. The pressure knocks his glasses askew; Byakuran can see the frames twist from the weight, one of the plastic arms sliding up into Irie’s hair, but Irie doesn’t move away. “You tried to  _kill_  me.”

“You shouldn’t exaggerate,” Byakuran observes. He twists the bottle open, spills slick liquid across his fingertips and palm, listens to Irie’s breathing catch faster on expectation even though he can’t see what Byakuran is doing. “It was Kikyo who tried to kill you.”

“You  _do_  remember,” Irie protests, even his anger slurring into heat as Byakuran closes the bottle and sets it aside before reaching out to brace his clean hand in the dip of the line just above Irie’s hipbone. Irie lifts his arm, mouth dropping into a frown of frustration, but Byakuran looks away instead of watching, lets his gaze drop to the slick shine of light on his fingers as he reaches for Irie’s skin. “You shouldn’t make me-- _ah_ ” and Irie’s arching again, body curving towards the ceiling as Byakuran slides a finger into him, pushing friction past the reflexive tension at his entrance. “ _Byakuran_.”

“Keep talking,” Byakuran says, his voice dipping lower as his finger slides deeper. “Then what?”

“We lost,” Irie gasps, straining the words, rushing over the syllables like he can persuade Byakuran to move faster by the rate of his speech. “But Yuni stepped in, she-- _god_ \--she distracted you.”

“I am easily distracted,” Byakuran agrees, smiling around the words, leaning close so his exhale gusts against the flush on Irie’s cock.

“Fuck,” Irie blurts, his foot sliding against the sheets like he’s seeking traction he can’t catch. “Byakuran, please, I’m.”

“Yeah,” Byakuran breathes, slides his tongue quick against the salt-slick collecting at the head of Irie’s cock. Irie jerks at the contact, hips rocking up and body tensing, and Byakuran grins and pulls away again. “Finish the story first.”

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Irie wails, protest made pointless by the submission Byakuran can feel in his body, the tension of the other’s reactions easing away under his touch. “We retreated to regroup” as Byakuran takes a long, slow thrust with his finger, savoring the way Irie opens up to him, the way Irie’s knees fall wider even as his voice thrums taut in the haste in his chest. “When we met again it was in the forest.” Byakuran fits another finger alongside the first, catches the head of Irie’s cock with his lips and sucks slow pressure as his fingers slide into the other. Irie’s voice cracks, his words dying into a drawn-out spill of sound, and Byakuran can hear his composure failing him, his attention collapsing until even the threat of a direct order won’t be enough to pull him back from the edge. Byakuran licks against Irie’s length again, drags his tongue hard against the head of his cock, and then pulls away while Irie is still moaning, looks up to watch his face as he draws his fingers back.

“Almost done,” Byakuran purrs, thrusting forward hard enough that Irie shudders again, his cock twitching hard against the flat of his stomach. “Get to the end of the story, Sho-chan.”

“You lost,” Irie says, the words starting like a sob and ending as a moan as Byakuran fucks him open with his fingers, spreading his touch wider to stretch Irie around him. “You fought and you lost and you  _died_  and I--”

“You came back,” Byakuran finishes for him, because Irie has made it to the end, and because his voice is skipping to a high range of hysteria that isn’t really where Byakuran wants him, at least not right now. “Before any of it happened at all.”

“Yes,” Irie gasps, relief audible in his voice, and Byakuran pulls away from him, slides his fingers free and loosens his hold at Irie’s hip so he can rock back over his knees and unfasten the fly of his jeans. “And you were still here.”

“Of course I was,” Byakuran purrs, pushing his clothes away from his hips so he can slide his cock free of the fabric, can close his slick palm against himself and stroke up against the ache of heat under his skin. “What would I do without my Sho-chan?”

“Byakuran,” Irie says, sounding ruined, sounding desperate, sounding the way Byakuran likes him best. Byakuran sighs anticipation, reaches out to tangles his fingers into Irie’s hair, and when he leans in for a kiss he shifts his hips between Irie’s knees too, fits himself into the open invitation of the other’s position.

“Aren’t you glad it’s just a memory?” Byakuran asks, knowing the answer, savoring the taste of the words as he pours them against Irie’s lips. “It’s like a bad dream, Sho-chan, it’s not  _real_.”

“I  _remember_  it,” Irie protests, forehead creasing as his arm comes up to fit around Byakuran’s shoulders, as his fingers slide to make a fist of Byakuran’s hair. “It  _feels_  real.”

“So does this,” Byakuran says, and rocks himself forward to slide an inch inside Irie’s body. Irie chokes, gasps, tenses against the bed, and Byakuran sighs satisfaction and rocks back to take another, longer thrust, the motion dragging heat up his spine and sparking hot in the back of his thoughts. “Doesn’t it.”

“ _God_ ” and it sounds like begging, like a plea for mercy or for more, as if Byakuran would listen to either. “ _Byakuran_.”

“This is real,” Byakuran purrs, rolling the consonants to sugar on the back of his tongue, ducking closer to drag the motion of his lips against Irie’s mouth. “I’m here.” He rolls his hips, slides through a drawn-out wave of motion, lets his exhale drag hot in his chest as Irie shudders breathless and broken under him. “You’re here.” Byakuran’s hand fits at Irie’s shoulder, his fingers slide up to tangle into dark curls, and Irie’s head goes sideways in instinctively reaction, his motion framed on a reflex learned in those same unattached memories Byakuran can find inside the space of his own head. “We’re together.”

“Byakuran,” Irie says, repetition giving meaning by the rising heat in his voice, by the shattered plea on his tongue. His eyes are shut, his lashes heavy with the threat of moisture; Byakuran can see the flush rising to the line of his cheekbones, the color staining his skin as fast as it darkens the part of his lips.

“This is real.” Byakuran can feel his voice turning over on itself, gaining resonance against the inside of his lungs as he breathes; he’s moving faster, harder, rocking Irie back over the sheets in spite of the desperate hold of the fingers tangled into his hair. Byakuran can feel the hurt against his scalp, the pressure more than he can comfortably bear, but it’s eclipsed by the pleasure glowing through his veins, the anticipation that turns to electricity just under his skin. He can see bruises on Irie’s skin, fingerprints at his hip and a bite mark at his collarbone; when he leans close it’s to fit his mouth to Irie’s throat, to rest his lips feather-light at the thudding rush of heartbeat just along the other’s jaw.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran purrs, tasting the echo of his words handed back to him by the angle of Irie’s throat, the reverberation ticklish at his mouth even before Irie groans helpless heat to the air. “This is real.”

“Oh my god,” Irie sobs, and Byakuran trails his hand in sideways, fits his fingers into the gap between his body and Irie’s so he can close his hand around the resistance of Irie’s cock, can slick his thumb through the spill of pre-come at the head. “ _Please_.”

“Tell me,” Byakuran orders, bracing his elbow at the bed, tightening his hold on Irie’s length into a promise as he draws back, as he thrusts forward into the heat of Irie’s body tensing around him. “What’s real, Sho-chan?” His voice cracks, skids slippery into mania on the last word, but Irie just gasps air, too obedient to the command to comment on the break.

“This is,” he says, and it sounds like an admission and it tastes like reassurance, the vibration easing some perpetual tension in Byakuran’s chest. “This is real, this--” Byakuran’s hand slips, drags up over Irie’s length, and Irie arches off the bed, gasping for air from the heat around them. “ _Ah_.”

“Yes,” Byakuran says, agreement and praise and encouragement all taking up space on the word. He strokes over Irie again, wrings another breathless wail from the other’s throat, and his vision is turning to white at the edges, his focus narrowing to the way Irie’s hair looks from up close and the salt-sweet taste of his skin against Byakuran’s lips. “Sho-chan,” he repeats, tasting the sound on his tongue, and when he shifts his hand Irie arches and shudders and comes, his cock spilling sticky over Byakuran's touch before the motion is even complete. He feels like electricity, he tastes like sugar, and Byakuran shuts his eyes and breathes in heat and lets himself unravel, lets his shaky awareness of reality go in favor of red hair, of pale skin, of the flutter of Irie’s heart beating against his lips and the gasp of Irie’s breathing ruffling his hair as Byakuran sighs satisfaction against Irie’s throat.

Byakuran can remember dozens of moments like this, hundreds, uncounted lives tangling together into the web of his history and Irie’s, the two of them caught together by a force as invisible as magnetism and just as strong. His memories are a warzone as much as Irie’s are, his parallel universes stumbling over each other as much as Irie’s lived-over lives have unmoored him from his sense of this one. It’s a comfort, Byakuran finds, to have the present so sweet he doesn’t need to chase the pleasure of past or future.


End file.
